I’ll begin by noting a few things about three poems by Bashō:
on a withered branch / a crow has come to rest – / autumn dusk
with each breeze / the butterfly changes its place / on the willow
first snowflakes – / the leaves of yellow daffodils / bend downward
(my translations from Romanian into English - Ana Drobot)
Three translations into Romanian. I don’t know who translated them, and I suspect they were rendered via an intermediary language. As they stand, compared to more ambitious translations, they are actually quite decent. They sound good. Whoever translated them took care to speak in a flowing and poetic language. And to quote Bashō himself, the text flows like a thread of water over a bed of sand.
Aside from this lyrical intimacy, to me they don’t seem to bear the mark of poetry—at least not even an exotic kind. They are sensitive and austere notations of a moment in nature, captured with objectivity. The reader is confronted directly with the scene, placed within the atmosphere suggested by what’s said.
This careful presentation, in a single developed sentence, shows no intention of using a terse, fragmentary language. The text makes no allusions and reveals nothing hidden. The images are sufficient.
Reading such poems, it’s natural to believe that you too could write haiku. Easily. Because it resembles poetry you’ve already read in Romanian. Perhaps just a bit more austere.
It’s clear that the haiku has gained immensely through the kireji, and that Bashō never actually wrote haiku—he wrote hokku, three uninterrupted lines. Taking at face value the idea that one must imitate Bashō is a complete misunderstanding, and it’s good to be aware of that.
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